


Ghost

by astolat



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Imported, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-11-15
Updated: 1997-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette set during the first season, when Nick believed LaCroix dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost

_there's a letter on the desktop that i dug out of a drawer_  
 _the last truce we ever came to from our adolescent war_  
 _and I start to feel a fever from the warm air through the screen_  
 _you come regular like seasons shadowing my dreams_  


* * *

He had been cleaning out the accumulated debris from the many drawers,  
sorting through papers and consigning most of them to the fireplace. Now  
he stares at the last remaining envelope on the desk as if it might leap  
up and bite him. Nicholas de Brabant, in a strong, flowing hand, marks the  
front. He picks it up, looks at the fire, then drops the little packet  
back into a drawer and slams it shut with unwarranted violence.

He flings himself on the bed, tossing an arm over his eyes to shut out  
what little light percolates from the fire. As the silent pressure of  
sunlight outside his window nudges him towards sleep, his mind wanders  
easily back to the memory... the warm New Orleans air lapping through the  
mosquito-netting screen of his hotel room as he read the note, the  
contrast to the cool fingers that had touched his cheek as he'd laid down  
the sheet of paper...

"Lacroix," he said uncertainly. Soft rustling as a cape was swung off,  
deposited on a chair. Pale skin gleamed in the candlelight as the other  
tossed gloves aside, took a seat. Silver-blue eyes, clear as water. "It's  
been a while." The words sounded so mundane, so graceless. He wanted to  
take them back.

"Antioch."

He repressed an involuntary shudder at the memory of the ominously  
singular presence of the Enforcers, the flames that had pursued him like  
an accusing finger pointed at the heavens as he'd fled the battlefield.  
"Yes. Antioch," he managed. "Are you well?"

"As can be expected."

Was the liquid silk of that voice sounding worn thin? He looked across the  
room. His master was gazing at the small fire. Shadows collected around  
the aquiline features more freely than usual, pooled beneath eyes and  
cheekbones. "What... happened?"

Lacroix shrugged slightly, never looking away from the flames. "The  
Enforcers dealt with the situation." Shadings of weariness and pain across  
the bond told the rest of the story. He asked no more. Silence, heavy as a  
blanket, stole into the air until the whole room was warm with it, the  
first semblance of peace between them for so long. A log cracked, spilled  
sparks onto the carpet. Rising, he crossed to the fire and stirred the  
remaining embers through the fire screen. He felt heat stealing across his  
face as he laid down the poker, remained there half-crouched, waiting,  
wanting.

Out of the silence, a hand clasped his, led him across the room to a  
canopied bed...

"Lucien," he breathes, letting his head sink back onto the pillows, eyes  
half-shut as the buttons slide loose under his fingers. In memory, Lacroix  
laughed, kissed him hard and tore at his clothes with eager savagery. He  
moans aloud and licks his thumb, rubs one nipple to painful tautness  
aching for the cool succulence of that skillful mouth. He runs his hand  
down his chest, panting as he unsnaps the jeans, hips writhing to ease  
them open. Lacroix was whispering in his ear, words too indistinct to make  
out over the consuming pleasure of drowning in his voice. Eyes closing  
completely, he slides his hand under the waistband of the briefs. His back  
arches involuntarily as a hand closes over his hardness, stroking,  
tightening on him in rhythymic pulses. Soft cries escape him as he thrusts  
upwards through the tight fist, control deserting him oh so quickly.

He licks his own lips for the sensation of Lacroix's tongue sliding on  
him, teasing down the fangs. A growl builds in his throat, desire given  
voice. He raises his hips off the silken sheets, remembering the soft  
weight of a pillow under the small of his back. A sigh that was almost a  
sob burst from him as he strains forward, missing... missing... "Please!"  
he cries, coming convulsively through clenched fingers, clinging  
desperately to the memory of being taken, tearing at his wrist to let the  
pounding heat out.

The last of the vision slips through the fingers of his mind, leaves him  
alone in bed, cold stickiness reddening his fingers, cold blood tears  
trailing down his face.

* * *

_and the mississippi's mighty_  
 _but it starts in minnesota_  
 _at a place that you could walk across with five steps down_  
 _and i guess that's how you started_  
 _like a pinprick to my heart_  
 _but at this point you rush right through me_  
 _and i start to drown_  


* * *

He looks out at the lights of Paris, absently rubbing his chest. When he  
notices, he stops, forcing the arm to hang freely by his side, pushes away  
the pain that still hovers relentless beneath the unmarred skin. When had  
matters gotten so out of his control, he wonders. Mirthlessly, he laughs  
at himself. "Losing my head over a child too careless to live without a  
keeper." He drinks deeply, bloodwine reflecting lamplight.

Such an amusing toy, he'd thought. A delicious new companion to please his  
sweet Janette, a challenge of seduction for his own conqueror's spirit,  
the more gentle pleasure of a son to teach and master. He hadn't planned  
on being caught in lost blue eyes, in the surprising capacity for pain. He  
pours another glass, drinks in a futile attempt to erase the memory of  
those blue eyes full of hatred, teeth bared over a flaming stake.

Snarling, he nearly flings the empty glass against the wall, but forces  
himself to set it down. He bitterly knows himself too weak to risk drawing  
attention to himself. His mouth curves cruelly with foreknowledge. The  
weakness will end, soon. His powers return to him with greater speed every  
day, each drop of human blood a harbinger of strength. And when he is  
restored, he will have his revenge. Scenarios of torment seethe in his  
mind. Not only will he make his protege suffer, he promises himself, he  
will lure Nicholas into self-betrayal, a surrender of body and soul to  
him.

His lips curve into a sensuous smile as he luxuriates in an envisioned  
scene... Nicholas, blindfolded and spread out on silk sheets, wrists  
bound securely to a bedpost. He settles into a leather recliner and rolls  
a sip of luscious bloodwine on his tongue, savoring the prospects. Silk  
first, perhaps -- the thinnest of scarves, slowly trailed over the instep  
and up the inner calves, allowed to drift over the thighs. One corner used  
to trace nipples to hardness, brushed over the hollow at the base of the  
throat. Perhaps a few hours of that particular pleasure, until every nerve  
in Nicholas's body was on edge, teased and stimulated to the highest  
pitch. Then... the first touch of his mouth on skin -- better yet, only  
his tongue, first just touching, tasting the marble-smooth surface salty  
with desire. A random pattern, never indicating where the next descent of  
cool lips would come to tantalize, only to lift away before any real  
satisfaction was given.

Eyes lidding in speculative amusement, he can easily imagine he hears  
soft pleading tones, sees the body writhe and arch against the bindings,  
trying to find solace for the knife-edge sharpness of its arousal. Oh yes,  
he'll make his recalcitrant child beg -- a fine outcry might win a few  
minutes of a deep kiss, a sobbing request the first longed-for sliding of  
his tongue-tip over the veins in the throat, a scream the barest stroking  
touch of his finger on the stiffened hardness of his protege's erection.

He licks his lips, slides his tongue over the sharpening surface of his  
fangs in anticipation. He will keep Nicholas on the edge of climax for  
hours -- perhaps even days -- enjoying the finely-pitched agony. Then...  
ah, then... when the peak of tension has been reached and even the  
faintest caress would bring release, he'll take off the blindfold and make  
Nicholas ask to be taken -- make those dazed blue eyes watch as he lifts  
the hips off the bed and slowly slowly enters, taking possession of that  
sweet body and the sweeter spirit inside it. Then he'll begin moving,  
varying the degree of his penetration, rocking back and forth, increasing  
the pace as Nicholas cries aloud with pleasure...

He jerks out of the seat, erection hard against the seam of his trousers,  
and flings himself towards the bottle in a rage, drinking ferociously  
without bothering with a glass. The treacherous whelp deserves *nothing*  
but agony at his hands, he angrily swears to himself, agony that would at  
its worst moments be a weak echo of the pain inflicted on his own body.  
And here he is, still weak from that murderous attack, fantasizing about  
giving the boy pleasure, for the gods' sake. It sickens him. Degrading, to  
act like such a fool, like a... *lovesick* fool. He succumbs to the  
faintest groan and leans against the wall, resting his head on one bent  
arm.

* * *

_and there's not enough room in this world for my pain_  
 _signals cross and love gets lost and time passed makes it plain_  
 _of all my demon spirits i need you the most_  
 _i'm in love with your ghost_  


* * *

"Nick? What's the matter, partner? You've been spacing out on me more than  
usual."

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Come on, it's not nothing. Hey, it's me, y'know, the guy you trust with your  
life? Talk, Knight."

"I said it's *NOTHING*!"

"Whoa, whoa, ok. Forget I mentioned it. But you think that maybe you could  
direct a little of your attention to this case? Nick? Nick... hey, where are  
you going?"

* * *

_dark and dangerous like a secret that gets whispered in a hush_  
( _don't tell a soul_ )  


* * *

He stands uncertainly in the darkness of the broadcast booth, shadows  
whispering at him cruelly. What do you want here? There's nothing left,  
nothing but ashes and dust. What did you hope to find? You burned  
everything else away. He brushes aside a curtain, trails fingers over  
equipment switches. A microphone hovers expectantly atop a stand, and he  
stares at it, thinking of curved, full lips shaping the air millimeters  
from the surface. He turns aside abruptly, half-crouching with his hands  
wrapped around his waist against the pain clawing at his gut. He flees  
the shadows, flees the silence.

* * *

_when i wake the things i dreamt about you last night make me blush_  
( _don't tell a soul_ )

* * *

"Hi there."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Schanke told me about your disappearing act."

"Not now, Nat. Please."

"Nick. Look at me. What's wrong? You can tell me. Have you fallen off the wagon  
again? We can get past it, we've done it before... that's not it, is it?"

"No."

"Tell me."

For a single black moment, he flirts with the idea of telling her how he's  
lain awake and trembling under the lash of desire for long days now. For a  
moment.

"No."

"Nick..."

"Go. Just... go."

She leaves, eventually.

* * *

_when you kiss me like a lover_

* * *

"I am your slave, given to you for eternity..." A cool finger, tracing his  
lips. Then a blood-warmed kiss, heat on his tongue, liquid fire sharper  
than the lost taste of spirits, thick with ancient visions of worlds long  
gone. Tasting himself, tasting his master, tasting the fragrant fragile  
wine of their prey's blood vanishing like mist in the burning of their  
mutual joyful heat.

* * *

_then you sting me like a viper_

* * *

"Hate is a step in the right direction." Beautiful golden head, lying so  
limp in his arms, blue eyes like milky glass broken...

* * *

_i go follow to the river_  
 _play your memory like the piper_  


* * *

His fingers unerringly find the notes. The first melody he'd ever  
composed and liked well enough to play for someone else. Every note is a  
memory complete... here a faint lack of recognition on Lacroix's face,  
here a growing stir of puzzlement... the final collision of notes bringing  
the remembrance...

"Well played." Pause. When he didn't speak, "I don't recognize the piece." Annoyance.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes." Stiffly, "What is it?"

"I haven't picked a name yet."

Silence. "You composed that?"

Glowing, "Yes."

"My, my." Annoyance suddenly turned to pleasure. "How very clever of you, mon cher. You've surprised me." A hand, stroking his hair. "Play it for me again."

"You really like it?"

"Yes. You've written other pieces."

"How did you know?"

"Not even Mozart's first piece was anything but dreadful."

He laughed, bent his head over the keys once again...

In the loft, he moves restlessly away from the piano.

* * *

_and i feel it like a sickness how this love is killing me_  
 _but i'd walk into the fingers of your fire willingly_  
 _and dance the edge of sanity_  
 _i've never been this close_  
 _in love with your ghost_  


* * *

He knows how dangerous this is, to court the memories that come too easily  
of their own accord, how easy to be completely lost for days in reliving  
dreams drawn from a neverending past. Lacroix had warned him against this,  
warned him... then punished him when he disobeyed. Starved him and whipped  
him and hounded him through some nighttime forest with its tearing  
branches until all he could think of was the present, the taste of  
unsatisfying animal blood on his lips and the pain of splinters digging  
into his skin, the terror of dark power chasing him until the chase ended  
in his master's arms, soothing cool fingers on his brow, tender lips  
sucking gently at each little wound to clean it, strong arms cuddling him,  
turning him around and pulling at his clothes.

"Open your senses," the voice behind him urged softly, intently. "Taste  
the night air caressing your skin, the wind moaning with your own voice."  
He surrendered, savoring the sweet roughness of bark beneath his cheek as  
he clung to the young oak, leaning forward as Lacroix entered him without  
preamble, the elemental pain tying him to the moment. Followed by the  
equally elemental pleasure as Lacroix began to move inside him, cupped  
blood-slick fingers between his thighs, stroking, stroking. He moaned with  
delight as Lacroix worked him methodically, penetrating to the hilt, then  
almost withdrawing.

Losing track of himself, falling into the only death either of them would  
ever know... the only death...

A flaming stake in a dark room, golden eyes so wide with surprise,  
shock...

"No!" He jerks up on the couch, panting. The loft is dark and cold, blood  
congealing in the bottle dangling from his hand.

Silently, he weeps.

* * *

_unknowing captor_  
 _you'll never know how much you_  
 _pierce my spirit_  
 _but i can't touch you_  
 _can you hear it_  
 _a cry to be free_  
 _or i'm forever under lock and key_  
 _as you pass through me_

* * *

He drinks and closes his eyes. An image swims in his mind's eye, Nicholas  
asleep in his bed, golden hair curling on the pillow just asking to be  
tugged. He shakes himself free, eyes golden with anger, and swears aloud,  
"I will not play the fool for him. I will leave him to his own devices.  
Let him play at mortality, then. When he finally gives up and accepts that  
there is no cure, he'll..." Unbidden vision: Nicholas, standing in the  
sunlight, tears staining cheeks with red, praying to an unheeding god as  
the burning rays leech flesh from bone, reduce that golden body to ash...  
He shatters the glass in his hand, deliberately tightening his grip on the  
shards until they cut his flesh, mingling his blood into the hollows of  
the crystal. He watches the blood drip, focusing tightly on the drops,  
counting them until the insistent pressure of the image gives up, fades  
away.

* * *

_now i see your face before me_  
 _i would launch a thousand ships_  
 _to bring your heart back to my island_  
 _as the sand beneath me slips_  
 _as i burn up in your presence_  
 _and i know now how it feels_  
 _to be weakened like achilles_  
 _with you always at my heels_

* * *

"My Nicholas," he murmurs painfully in surrender, watching the water rinse  
away the glass splinters from his already-healing flesh. The campaign  
slowly lays itself out in his mind. He will break his child free of the  
mortal shell around him, pull him somewhere new before he is ready to move  
on. Nicholas will hate him again, of course. Suddenly he feels so tired of  
being hated. Perhaps he can try a different method. Maybe... maybe  
Nicholas has felt a bit of regret. The child probably thinks he is dead,  
after all.

His lips curve with self-mocking amusement. Foolish, foolish hope. No, he  
will not indulge such utter folly. Disaster for himself and his child lies  
that way. Better to uproot Nicholas, unbalance the temporary stability of  
his son's existence, use that interval of disruption to reawaken vampiric  
instincts and tighten the bonds between them.

He returns to the window, pulling the shades closed. Dawn is starting to  
tint the sky. Tomorrow he will begin the arrangements. "Nicholas..." he  
whispers, longing touching his voice.

* * *

_and my bitter pill to swallow is the silence that i keep_  
 _that poisons me_  
 _i can't swim free_  
 _the river is too deep_  
 _though i'm baptized by your touch_  
 _i am no worse at most_  
 _in love with your ghost_

* * *

"Damn you, Lacroix! Damn you! Damn you!" Shattering bottle, splashed blood  
a growing stain against the wall. He heaves helplessly, sobs wracking his  
body. "Damn you for letting me kill you," he whispers. "Damn you for  
leaving me."

* * *

_you are shadowing my dreams_

* * *

"Come back to me."


End file.
